Plunder by Menachem Kaiser (suggested reading txt) 📗

vast majority of these guys are hobbyists with less nefarious, more complex motivations—​an unstable mix of pride, delusion, greed, curiosity, camaraderie, destiny, responsibility, adventure, and, of course, the plain fact that it’s a lot of fun. It’s something like a brash combination of amateur historian, extremely amateur archaeologist, spelunker, and conspiracy theorist.

It makes sense why the explorers are so drawn to World War II—​the history is bottomless, there is so much that is unanswered, inexplicable, strange. Poland is veritably pockmarked with World War II mystery. This is particularly true in Silesia, which was German land, the Nazi frontier. (Relevant also is Silesia’s centuries-long legacy of mining—​primarily coal, but also gold, silver, cobalt, uranium, and other minerals; here is a legacy of actual treasure; and where there is a legacy of actual treasure there is, always, a legacy of mythical treasure; in many ways contemporary treasure hunting is but the most recent iteration of a very old narrative.) All that destruction and dispossession and displacement created countless voids, of which the undergrounds are the most literal and most explorable example. And Riese is the central mystery, is in a sense the center of all the mystery. Its size; that it’s subterranean; that it’s Nazi infrastructure; that there’s so little documentation; that so much of the complexes is still inaccessible and unexplored. You can see why its grip on the explorers’ imagination is so strong, why its myth-capacity is so enormous, why it’s accorded a kind of sacredness. And why, in turn, Abraham Kajzer and his book are so revered.

I came to think of exploring as a response. To what? I can’t say exactly. To a kind of disturbance. To the traumas that are stored, literally and otherwise, in the ground. It’s something like an unease, an apprehension, a discontent with this particular land and this particular history, with these sites and their stories and secrets and tragedies. You hang out with these guys long enough and you start understanding just how metaphorically powerful the concept of “underground” is. The metal detectors, scanning the ground for what’s not supposed to be there. The conflation of buried treasure and buried bodies and buried answers.

Andrzej invited me, via Joanna, to come to his sanctuary. “It is a very big honor,” she said. “What do you mean, sanctuary?” I asked. “Like his house?” “Yes it is his house,” Joanna said, “but not his main house. It is his home for treasure.” I didn’t understand but I rarely did.

The sanctuary was a handsome two-story house at the end of a long steep driveway surrounded by a lovely landscaped multilevel terrace. No one was home when Joanna and I arrived; we waited outside in a couple of deck chairs. This could have been a rich man’s cottage. “I still don’t understand what this place is,” I said to Joanna. “Does Andrzej live here?” “No.” “He lives close to here?” “Oh yes,” she said. “A few minutes away.” “I don’t understand anything,” I said. “Oh you will see,” she said.

Presently Andrzej arrived and greeted me very warmly, huge smile, huge hug—​and with him were his wife, daughter, and son-in-law. They were casually clothed, no camo, no indication they cared much at all about the underground mysteries of World War II. I’d only ever seen Andrzej in blustery explorer mode, so intense and overbearing it was hard to picture him otherwise. But here was his family, friendly and endearing and extremely civilian. Andrzej introduced me as the grandson of Abraham Kajzer. I corrected him, said that Abraham wasn’t my grandfather but my grandfather’s cousin, but it didn’t register: as Andrzej told his family the story of Abraham and his diary, he referred repeatedly to Abraham as my grandfather. I tried again to correct him, but again it had no effect, Andrzej was deep into the story, extolling Abraham’s legend, explaining the significance of his book, and wouldn’t or couldn’t change course: as far as he was concerned, Abraham was my grandfather. I let it slide. Andrzej’s family listened to Andrzej and smiled bashfully and shook my hand. I was an honored guest; Andrzej was showing me off. Were they humoring him? It didn’t seem like it, though how would I be able to tell, really. My interest in treasure hunting and in Andrzej in particular conferred a sort of legitimacy that Andrzej on some level clearly relished and that his family seemed genuinely impressed by.

We went inside and sat down at a large oak table in a wood-paneled room. The sanctuary had a clubhouse kind of feel. On the wall were framed maps, a large metal ornamental Reichsadler, a spoked steering wheel of a ship. An antique typewriter was on display in the corner. Lots of very fine woodwork. The table’s centerpiece was a three-foot model of the Eiffel Tower. Next to it was a heap of explorer-related documents—​maps, permits, applications, sketches of Nazi UFOs.

After some tea and cake and small talk Andrzej ushered his family into the car and sent them off. Whatever it was that we were going to discuss, the gesture said, it wasn’t family appropriate. As they were leaving, Janek, the sidekick, pulled up. He grinned and waved, but didn’t get out of the car. Instead Andrzej got in, and they drove off, leaving Joanna and me alone in the sanctuary. They’ll be back soon, Joanna said. They want to bring you something. A surprise.

Fifteen minutes later they returned with an eighty-six-year-old man named Edward Spiranski. Spiranski was in bad shape: he had recently suffered a stroke, and was weak and barely ambulatory. Andrzej and Janek helped him out of the car and stood on either side of him, gripping his arms. But Spiranski still had trouble walking, so on the count of three they lifted him from under his armpits and from under his knees and carried him down the stairs and inside the house and installed him at the head of the table. A still-grinning Janek said good-bye and left.

Spiranski wore a